


Big eyes.

by Rea_LF



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bad Poetry, Fluff, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rea_LF/pseuds/Rea_LF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France doesn't like green or English people. But when we're talking about England, his England, the whole world changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big eyes.

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ojos grandes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837316) by [Rea_LF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rea_LF/pseuds/Rea_LF). 



> I'm not a native english speaker and I didn't translate this so it's not my fault if it's horrible and sucks -me avoiding responsabilities.
> 
> I used the tag "poetry" because I don't think there's an actual tag for my non-sense bs but still.

England close his eyes _because he makes him close them with a kiss_ , but he doesn’t want them to be closed, France likes his eyes, his infinite and green eyes, eyes avoiding the blue ones as if they burned, _because they burn_ , France sighs, leaving kisses like cigarette bruises all over his face, even on the neck, although he already told him not to do it, because everyone sees them, and he’s not feel like going to explain _what those things are_. He cuddle his long _long_  hair, he told him again to cut it, but it seems like he loves being a fag, _oh, oh, oh_ , but I'm not gay, just my boyfriend. If he were calmed all the time he would love him even more, and he asks if it’s even possible that he can love him more. Obviously not, **_otherwise he would have died,_** because all that love just doesn’t fit into one body, git; but he doesn’t tell him. He wants to take his hand, but _holy shit_ , he’s  lying on his chest and his hand is way down there and it’s not in touch, he can’t reach it. England rubs France’s nose with his finger, the same finger he uses to drown it a few seconds in the teapot to see if it’s hot enough, and he likes it, France's nose is straight, the kind of nose that looks like it will never end, when **magic!** Disappears.

Frankly, it's just like France.

Your nose is horrible, **_your nose is beautiful_** , and he has the world's most beautiful gap between the eyebrows; he loves to drive France mad, some just to see the parallel lines that magically appear in it. He draws them as he’s passing the pages of a Doyle’s book, reading them, seeing what they say. They’re the color of the last sip of coffee in the mug, and he brush them, _ **and brush them,** and brush them_ , barely touching his face, slightly, and making England think of the _**insanely urge**_ to kiss him, _to kiss him,_ but he would need to get up, and who the fuck would like getting up when you have France purring like a sleeping tiger in his belly, breathing as he were about to die. His fingers dance down, dancing down his jaw line, which, _oh god_ , it’s so sharp that makes England get horny just by staring at it, and when France sleeps, he’s so erotic that he could collapse just watching him inhaling and exhaling. No, I already told you I don’t like you to kiss me with that beard, it seems that it never grows one millimeter more, because it’s just the length of beard England liked, that little tickle and this little scratch, because if they aren’t there, it just isn’t France, and he likes France.

France,

_précisément_

 

doesn’t like having his eyes closed, because even when he makes love have them half open, never half closed, but he hides his blue regard behind his eyelids because he knows that’s the only way England will search in all his face without embarrassment and dying of shame. His shoulders hurt just a little, but England hasn’t made him hit the road of his soft –but sharp- body, and he certainly prefer having the whole world’s shoulders pain, than leave that place so warm, so comfortable, because he  haves magic, he does, but he doesn’t know where, and ** _France does._** And France laughs. That’s why England never knows why the hell France laughs.

**_How France laughs._ **

_How France laughs._

Like kisses, and Gainsbourg’s old songs.

He turns around to place his elbows on the sheets, still avoiding his looking, but England blushes **as always** , _like ever_ , and France throws the red in his face as if blush were water, and frowns because he doesn’t like blushing that easy, because to embarrass France he needs to be sweeter than the things that USA eats, and he ends blushing even more, and he makes fun of him in his face.

 _“I'm not making fun of you”_ England hits him on the forehead _“is just that you look so..._ ”and he no longer understand a single word,  because he mumbles in his cheek like he were a pillow, instead of talking like people... but if we talk face to face you hide yours, **_mon amour_**. And talking about faces he kiss every single face England has, _in all of them_ , France no longer need to see England’s faces because he knows them like he were born to put his lips against his skin, even though he pushes him a little, and in the streets of London the sun begins to show.

France bites his lip, not like when he wants to seduce England,  more like when he’s trying not to laugh a little bit too hard, and not because he’s taking  England for a fool, it’s just that he’s _fascinated_ when England don’t know how to ask for a kiss, he sees in his big eyes the **burning** _desire_ to have just one, also amused by the way he opens his eyes and eyelids and then them fall again, as if he were kissing like he’s kissing him, as if he were feeling  France’s left arm around his neck and bend his slender fingers, as if it was a claw, and is not a secret  that this is the way England kisses France, possessive as anyone else, and still say France is who is going _over_ the hands.

The actual problem it’s that he loves France so much. That much he probably will never tell him with _words_ , but right here and right now France can even touch his feelings between his fingers, the heart beats like a **_pouring rain_** on his eyelashes. This is the magic trick, and –hopefully England will never know.

Besides _everyone_ knows that the first thing he saw France to England was not his ass, but his eyes (which the fact itself is rare), because they’re big, _big_ , and if people tell you that England have the most sarcastic, hardest look is because they are blind or **I-don’t-know** what, and England hates them, because people also lie and tell him he has the most beautiful pair of green eyes of the whole world, because he knows that compliments always will feel so cold and empty if they come of everyone else but France, but if France does he also gets angry...

But what’s good in having green eyes, if France doesn’t see them? And what if he had brown or blue eyes, like yours? France likes England’s eyes not because they’re _big_ and **green** ; he only likes them because they’re England’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I would appreciate that you don't kill me and my grammar, thank you all for reading.


End file.
